


Shift

by zillah975



Category: The Losers
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Gunplay, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah975/pseuds/zillah975
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the only thing saving Clay is Roque's hand pulling him back. And sometimes, Clay's trust is the only thing saving Roque.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shift

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Authority Figures" square on my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card. Contains incidental barebacking.

They reached the farm just after dawn, with the cold morning light glittering on the frost-limned windows, and they parked the truck in the battered old barn out back and filed into the house through the kitchen. Jensen, Cougar, and Pooch spread out to double-check the place — supposed to be a safe-house but it never hurt to be sure.

Roque sat heavily at the kitchen table, watching as Clay found the thermostat in the hallway and tapped it until the heat came on.

"Roque, how's your shoulder?"

"Still works." He wrenched it during the op, grabbing for Clay and hauling him back by the strap of his weapon when Clay lost his footing and started to take a header off the goddamned cliff. He rolled it now and winced, then nodded. "We cut it close that time, Colonel." The smell of the heater reached him, and he remembered his grandmother's kitchen, warming slowly in the cold Minnesota winter.

"Horseshoes and hand grenades, Roque. Close isn't mission failure."

"Closer than I like," Roque clarified.

Clay looked at him, and started to say something, but Pooch came in then with the all-clear. "Jensen and Coug are setting up a perimeter. I'm going to sack out — there's two bedrooms upstairs and one down that hall."

"Roque and I will bunk downstairs. We need to talk."

Pooch nodded and cleared out, and Roque got up and followed Clay down the hallway. Those four words told him what was coming, and it wasn't talk. Sometimes he thought maybe Clay pulled this kind of stunt on purpose, this crazy shit that made Roque question his own sanity for continuing to take orders from the man, just to bring them here, for this. But even Clay wasn't that reckless.

He wondered if the men knew about him and Clay; he wondered if he cared. He knew Clay didn't care. Clay didn't care about much except the team and his country, but he had this unshakable faith in _their_ faith, like even if they knew he was fucking his Captain six ways from Sunday — or sometimes the other way around — it wouldn't change anything.

Roque, well, Roque didn't have that kind of faith. But so far, Clay had enough for both of them. For all of them, maybe.

The third door on the right led into a bedroom that was already made up, but there was a thin layer of dust on everything and when Roque turned on the shower in the ensuite, the water ran rust brown. He stripped down while it cleared, then stepped under the blessedly hot spray and started trying to scrub off a week's worth of sleeping rough, two days in a filthy shack, and twenty-eight heart-pounding minutes in that goddamned fortress before Jensen could get the codes, he could set the charges, and they could all get out. Typical day at the office, except for the part about how the fortress was on the side of a mountain and their only way in was sneaking up the sheer cliff face.

What he couldn't scrub off was feeling Clay's weight hanging over the three hundred foot drop by the strap of his Heckler &amp; Koch.

By the time he finished and headed back into the bedroom, Clay had only stripped to his BDU pants and undershirt, and was sprawled on the bed with his boots still on. Roque went to get his sidearm from the chair he'd dropped his gear in.

"There any hot water left?" Clay asked, rolling to his feet.

Roque turned around with the Desert Eagle in his hand. "You ain't going to need it for a little while."

Clay hesitated. "I haven't had a shower in days, Roque, can't this wait?"

"Come on." Roque nodded to him. "Finish what you started, there, Colonel." He kept the pistol leveled at Clay's chest.

"You know you don't need that," Clay said, a ghost of a smirk on his mouth.

"I know. I just like the way it makes you pretend to be a little cautious for a change." Roque gestured with the pistol. "Strip off, Colonel, and get over here."

"And the safety's on," Clay pointed out, and Roque grinned.

"Yeah, I know that. Contrary to what you might think from how I keep on backing you up on these goddamned suicide missions, I don't actually want to watch you die. But I can take the safety off in a hot second if you don't do what I tell you."

Clay's fingers were teasing up the bottom of his undershirt, and his hard-on was already outlined against the loose fabric of his pants. He wanted this just as much as Roque did, but he had to push, just a little. He always had to push. "You sure you want to do this now, Captain?"

"I'll cut that shirt off you if you don't move your sorry ass."

Clay grinned and pulled the shirt off. He was filthy. Sweat-tracks made pale lines through the grime, and Roque watched him unbuckle his belt and slide it out, his eyes on Roque the whole time. Then he crossed the room and hooked his fingers in the towel wrapped around Roque's waist.

"Uh-uh, you first," Roque said, gesturing with the pistol.

"This a 'my way or the highway' kind of deal?" Clay asked, still smirking.

"Ain't no highway, Colonel," Roque answered. "There's only my way. Get your goddamned pants down."

"I like the way you call me 'Colonel' when you're giving me orders, Captain," Clay said, but he was unfastening his pants and pushing them down, boxers too.

Roque nodded. "I know you do, but that isn't why I do it."

"Why do you, Roque?" Clay asked, and it was almost like he was really interested in the answer.

Roque ignored it, and laid the barrel of the pistol against the curve of Clay's shoulder and pressed down, and Clay went to his knees. Roque swallowed a groan when Clay pressed a kiss to his belly, hot and open, his hands on Roque's hips.

Clay looked up at him. "Now?"

"Touch your dick," Roque said. "Let me see you."

Clay obeyed, and heat shuddered through Roque as if it was his own dick Clay was jacking, slow and lazy like they had all the time in the world. Maybe they did. Roque watched him for a long time, anyway, watched his smirk soften into wanting, edging towards asking. Clay finally licked his lips. "Roque, come on."

Roque shook his head. "No. Keep going."

"You want it too, Roque, don't make me wait."

"I want a lot of things, Colonel." He touched the pistol to Clay's jaw. "Keep going."

Clay swallowed, his throat working, and he started stroking himself again. Roque carded his fingers into Clay's hair and Clay's breath stuttered. "Roque. Come on."

Roque waited until Clay's cock was slick with precome and his breath was shuddering, and then Clay said, "Roque," again, and finally, "please, I'm asking."

Roque nodded. "Okay," he said, and Clay let out a breath and tugged the towel loose, put his mouth on Roque's cock like he was starving for it, swallowing him down and digging into Roque's hips with his fingers. Roque kept one hand in Clay's hair, cupping the one still holding the pistol around the back of his neck, and he pushed deeper than Clay wanted him, but Clay didn't try to pull away.

"Not going to watch you die, Clay," he murmured. "Not going to lose you like that." Roque thrust into him deep, and again, fucking Clay's throat until he could feel him trying not to choke. Clay's eyes were watering like hell and the tears left tracks through the grime on his face, and Roque wondered how fucked up he was that that just made it hotter.

When he finally let go, Clay jerked back, coughing and wet-mouthed, wet-eyed, but then he was reaching for Roque, pulling him down. His voice was thick. "Not dying," he said. "Come here." And he let Roque push him to his back, and he dug a tube of Vaseline out of his pocket and they both laughed, Clay arching an eyebrow like _didn't we both know? we both knew._ Roque turned him over and slicked himself, and jerked Clay up to his knees, and Clay's smell surrounded him, familiar as his own through three days of sweat and dirt and blood. They both let out a growl when he pushed inside, and Roque fucked him slow and hard, reaching around to jack Clay off while Clay bit out curses against his own forearm. He came with Roque's name on his lips, and Roque followed, shuddering, biting down on the back of Clay's neck to keep Clay's name inside.

Later, in the shower, he pushed Clay under the spray and held him there while water sluiced over them both, and he lathered through the dirt and sweat to find clean skin beneath. Clay's hands rested on his waist, and for a while they just stood there, breathing.

When they were both dry and stretched out on the bed, Clay asked him again.

Roque shrugged. "I like seeing you do what I tell you for a change," he said. "Making you need it so much that you'll ask me for it. Making my C.O. take orders from me, who wouldn't want that?" he said, and grinned, but his heart was beating hard and he didn't know why. "Why do you let me?"

Clay looked at his hand where it rested on Roque's chest. "You follow my orders out there, where I need you to. I know you'll do it when it counts."

"Not because I haul you back in when you're falling off a goddamed cliff?"

"Nah. Not because of that." Roque opened his mouth but Clay laughed and rolled over and kissed him, and kissed him again. "This isn't a thank-you, Roque. Sometimes I want it this way."

Roque pushed Clay off of him and rolled on top, pinning him to the bed. "That's good," he said, and slid his grip up Clay's arms to his wrists. "That's good. Because sometimes, I just need you to do what I fucking tell you to do."

Clay grinned. "Sometimes I will," he said, and flexed his fingers, open and closed, and open again, and Roque felt the bones move, strong and fragile, in his hands.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Shift (When the Barrel's In Your Mouth Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/182831) by [lady_krysis (saekhwa)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis)




End file.
